The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club

by Jessica Morrison

  Which means I’ll have more time to plan my return home. Which gives me more dull things to write about. So really, everyone wins.

  It did occur to me on a few occasions (like when one of the less sensitive readers wondered why I got “so freaking lame all of a sudden,” provoking a flurry of theories about parental coddling, sexual frustrations, and serotonin levels that I’d sooner forget) that I might catch the attention of my wayward audience with a few titillating tidbits about Dan and me. It also occurred to me that I’d have to embellish a great deal to get those tales to the level of interesting, never mind titillating. Why that is, I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s not that I don’t enjoy Dan’s company. We do have a nice time together, and I generally look forward to our excursions to museums, parks, and other must-see places on our blended lists. He’s a great guy, really great. In a lot of ways, the perfect man. He has direction, good values, goals that are similar to mine. The couple of times we had sex, it wasn’t all that bad. For a broker from Boston, he can be rather frisky. I don’t ache to touch him, though. You should ache to touch someone you’re sleeping with, shouldn’t you?

  But then maybe this is what a husband is supposed to be like. Solid. Dependable. Beige.

  “Do you want a husband or Jude Law?” Zoey asked over instant messaging the other day. “Wait, dumb question.”

  My mother, who thinks Jude Law has something to do with the penal code, would be gaga for Dan. He is everything she holds dear in the world: stability, reliability, security, and every other synonym for “not going to leave my daughter for his secretary.” I should have known better than to tell her about him during my last phone call home. She went from excited to anxious in sixty seconds flat. “Men like this come along once in a lifetime, Cassie!” And then: “For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not wearing that ratty blue sweater around him.” I almost remind her that it’s three thousand degrees here, but why ruin her favorite pastime: imagining how I’m screwing up my life even worse than it already is.

  Funny thing is, I think as she swings into the story of how the neighbor’s daughter snagged herself a nice optometrist with a house in Capitol Hill, Dan is sort of like my ratty blue sweater:comfortable, easy, safe. Being with him is like being at home. We speak the same language—that of suburb commutes and CNN, Starbucks, and 401(k)s. Plus, Dan totally gets The Plan.

  “I think your plan is terrific,” he said as we waited in line for movie tickets one night. “If you don’t know what your goals are, how do you know when you’ve reached them?”

  “He likes The Plan because he thinks he’s part of it,” wrote Zoey in a recent e-mail.

  “He hasn’t said anything to even suggest that he thinks this is going anywhere,” I protested.

  “Oh, he will. That boy fell hard before you even knew his name.”

  “We’re just having fun together,” I shot back. “He’s got a life back home. And I’ve got to get one.”

  “And I’m telling you he’s gonna drop the L-bomb any day now.”

  “You are so wrong,” I wrote.

  “And you are so in DENIAL.”

  I didn’t tell Zoey about the CD he made for me. Nor did I mention the morning he got up early, bought groceries, and made me breakfast in bed. But no, Zoey’s just being dramatic. Maybe Dan has fallen for me a little, but it’s only an innocent, I’m-getting-over-my-ex-and-need-someone-to-distract-me kind of crush. Everyone who meets at El Taller is looking for distraction. Besides, how deep can feelings grow when they obviously aren’t returned?

  I try not to think about it while I get ready for our afternoon trip to the Teatro Colón, but I find myself dressing even more conservatively than usual, and there’s no denying why. The loose ponytail and boatneck T-shirt are a message to Dan that if I were really into him, I’d be trying harder. The tennis sneakers scream, “Just friends!” My preference for clear gloss over lipstick apologizes, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel that way about you.”

  I’ve done everything I can to keep things as light as possible with Dan. I constantly talk about what I’ll do when I’m home in Seattle. He talks about Boston. No, there will be no soulful gazing into each other’s eyes nor furtive hand-holding nor long, awkward goodbyes at my door late at night. Which I suppose means there will be no more of that for me at all while I’m here. That’s fine, I tell myself. There’ll be plenty of time for romance once I’ve got things sorted out back in the real world.

  I offer one last sigh to the mirror and head downstairs to wait for Dan outside. When I open the front door, I can barely see him for the humongous bouquet of roses he’s holding. There must be at least thirty of the small bunches that are sold everywhere on the street. He must have bought out an entire flower stand.

  “I couldn’t resist,” he says, grinning like a little boy. “They were so beautiful, I immediately thought of you.”

  It is precisely the kind of thing that I’ve always dreamed of a guy doing for me, yet I can feel my face pulling down instead of up, the way I know it should be. I should be thrilled or at least pleased, but I feel mildly annoyed, as though Dan has broken some unspoken pact, pushed me into a corner. Something is wrong with me. I cover my irritation with a brief kiss. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “You’re such a sweetheart,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as patronizing as I think it does. “Thank you so much. Let me put these in some water.”

  I run the flowers upstairs to find a vase. The closest thing I can find that’s big enough to hold them is a giant salad bowl. I shake my head at the sad sight of Dan’s beautiful roses bobbing helplessly in the wooden bowl. I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Dan is a dear, sweet guy. Why am I being so careless with something so precious? So I’m not head over heels. It’s not every day that a guy as great as Dan comes along. Men like this come along once in a lifetime. And occasionally, romantic feelings take time to bloom, don’t they? I’m not sure how I feel about the roses—or Dan—but I pull out my ponytail, give my hair a good shake, and swipe on a quick coat of red lip gloss. Just in case.

  Aside from the supersize flowers, my day with Dan is, predictably, predictable. We tour the inner workings of the great Buenos Aires opera theater with a group of Germans, Swedes, and other Americans. I play along, the dutiful tourist, listening closely to the guide, consulting the program we were handed at the entrance, nodding and oohing and aahing at this costume dummy or that giant sewing machine. It’s like faking an orgasm.

  Halfway through the tour, I remember Zoey’s excitement months ago at happening upon a cheap performance here. Puccini for three dollars. She skipped the tour. Or, more likely, the idea of a tour never occurred to her. The tour always occurs to me.

  The theater is certainly impressive, with floor after floor opening onto a world of production, from the massive set design area to rows of sewing machines where meticulous costumes are crafted to make every performance spectacular. It’s a beautiful old building from any angle, and I know I should be more captivated, more thrilled, by it all, snapping continuous photos like the others in the tour group, but it all seems a little empty, a little—pardon the pun—staged.

  “Aren’t you enjoying this?” Dan asks, concerned. I lie and say I am, snapping a photo to prove it. He smiles approvingly and turns his attention back to the guide. We might be getting an insiders’ look, but we are still outsiders, viewing it from the outside. It doesn’t come near the way I once felt wandering the streets of Buenos Aires, each turn unfolding something new, something unexpected. The simplest things filled me up. Mateo would point out an interesting architectural feature or maybe a home of someone he’s known forever, and I’d ask a zillion questions about what it was like to grow up in Argentina. Even lazing about at random cafés, listening to Mateo’s stories, meeting his friends on the street, soaking up the city at its own pace, I experienced a cultural immersion you can’t stand in line for or take pictures of.

  I begin to explain this to Andrea when I get home
from the theater. She nods with understanding.

  “Me, I never did any of these tourist things when I come here,” she says, shaking her head emphatically and fanning herself at the same time. I pour a glass of iced tea for her. “But I still don’t do them. That’s not the real Buenos Aires.”

  She takes a sip and smacks the table between us, smiling wide. Jorge, napping on the lounge chair beside her, flicks his fist at the air in protest. “I have the best idea for you. You must take a tango class!” Jorge opens an eye. The dogs come running.

  “Tango? Oh, no, I couldn’t.” Chico jumps up and nuzzles my hand. He was Andrea’s baby before Jorge came along. I scratch his chin. He loves this. His stub of a tail twitches happily. If only all men were this easy. “I’m a horrible dancer. Three left feet. The doctors tell me it’s incurable.”

  Andrea laughs and shakes her head. “No, I don’t believe you. You must go. You must! Don’t you think so, Jorge?” Still sleepy, and mildly accosted by two licking dogs, he crawls over to his mother and up into her lap. He eyes me quizzically, as though we’ve just met. “And there is a class tonight, very close to here. Oh, yes, you must go!”

  I want to remind her that the last time she insisted on my taking a class, it didn’t work out so well. Though it’s hardly Andrea’s fault that my inability to dance is surpassed only by my inability to learn Spanish. Reluctantly, I agree to tango, hoping this will absolve me of at least the latter.

  But I’m not going alone. No, sir. I call Dan so I have an instant dance partner, warning him to wear steel-toed shoes. I call Jamie, too. She might be a bit brash, but she’s fun. She’s been wanting to meet more locals, so she’s thrilled by the idea. “What does one wear to tango?” she ponders on the phone.

  “A rose in your teeth?” I offer.

  What does one wear to tango? I pull on a flippy little skirt, a black shell, and strappy high-heeled sandals and twist my hair back into a tight bun. I’ll need a complete field of vision tonight.

  Dan and Jamie both show up in jeans. Jamie’s are topped with a revealing black camisole and a pair of swishy earrings. I tell them to wait while I change, but they won’t hear of it.

  “You look amazing,” Dan gushes. “Really, really amazing.”

  Jamie agrees enthusiastically. “Mucho Argentina.” Her compliment makes me smile. She moves up a level on the friend-o-meter.

  “Yeah, she’s right.” Dan looks at me as though for the first time, tilting his head, puzzled. “You do sort of look like you belong here.”

  That settles it. I don’t change. At the class—held, curiously, in the basement of an Armenian community center a few blocks away—almost everyone is wearing jeans. Only the instructor, a striking older woman who’s had too much plastic surgery—Dan calls it the Tango Special—is wearing a dress and heels. When she spots me, tucked in behind Dan and another tall guy in a blue T-shirt, she looks me up and down and nods approvingly, saying something in Spanish that I can’t understand. Let’s hope she remembers that she once liked the look of me after she sees me dance.

  Luckily, it’s easy to hide my footwork in the massive group of beginners on our side of the hall. It’s so crowded, Dan actually thinks I’m good, blaming other couples for the constant assault on his feet. But then Dan’s not exactly Fred Astaire. “If we had a little more room, you could really show them your stuff,” he says.I smile and step on his foot. He grins proudly.

  A few rounds of the dance floor, and I’ve mastered the first two steps. For the other fourteen, I kind of wing it. I suspect a step or two from high school square dancing has made it in there somewhere (nothing wrong with a little cross-cultural exchange). Meanwhile, Jamie, in the hands of a cute young Argentine with a scruffy mullet, is shuffling, turning, and heel-toeing in perfect sync with him. She talks to her partner while she dances. She doesn’t count to herself, scrunch her forehead, or bite her lip. The instructor passes Jamie and nods approvingly. When the instructor sees me plodding along, she smiles weakly and moves on to someone she can help improve: an octogenarian with a limp. Ah, it was nice while it lasted.

  The music stops and we all switch partners. Jamie gets another cute Argentine. “Isn’t this a blast?” she shouts to me over the teacher’s introductions. I get the impression that Jamie would have fun whatever she was doing. Brash or not, it’s hard not to like her. Dan, glancing apologetically in my direction, has landed in the arms of a giggly teenager. I have no one. There are too many women in the class. I turn to join the wallflowers along the edge of the dance floor—grade-ten high school dance all over again—when I feel someone’s hand on my wrist. Please, I pray, don’t let it be that greasy-looking guy with the unbuttoned shirt and chest hair who was eying me earlier. Please, oh, please.

  It’s not the greasy guy. It’s Mateo. He’s dressed sharply in black, his hair smoothed back from his face, which wears a subtle stubble. For a second I think I must be dreaming. His voice snaps me out of it.

  “Cassie. I wasn’t sure that was you.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Am I not allowed to be here?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course.” I look over his shoulder and see Anna watching us intently. I find Dan in the crowd and wave, but he is too busy watching his footwork to see me.

  “It’s just . . .” His eyes move down my outfit and back up to my eyes, looking almost pleased. He smiles wickedly. His hand, I realize, is still on my arm. Oh, no. I’m not falling for that again.

  Anna’s eyes are still trained on us, yet she looks more amused than jealous. I guess I wouldn’t be much of a threat to her, would I? Mateo leans in as though to whisper a secret. I can feel his breath against my bare neck. “I see you don’t have a partner,” he says.

  Rub it in, I think. “I’m fine,” I say, looking for Dan. The music has started again, and I can see his head across the room, bent in deep concentration. His poor partner. “I was getting tired, anyway.” I’m not going to be his charity case. That, and there’s no way Mateo is going to see me dance. Oh, God, I think, maybe he already has. I reprimand myself once more. So what if he has? Good. Great. Perfect.

  “Scared of me?” That devil’s smile again, unnervingly sexy and slightly infuriating.

  “Yeah, right.” I chortle. “Sure. Okay. Why not?”

  “Why not,” he repeats.

  On the dance floor, Mateo draws me in close to him, much closer than demonstrated by the instructor, his hand pressing against the arch in my back. He starts to move, falling effortlessly into the music, and I attempt to follow. I can tell he is very good, far beyond our beginner group, and I hope he can’t tell that I am very bad. The crowd is my only salvation. We trip over other couples, they trip over us.

  Mateo never falters. He holds his head tilted up, his neck elongated, jaw firm. There’s no denying it: Tango looks good on him. Women young and old misstep, craning their necks to get a good look. Men clumsily sweep their partners away from the distracting view. He is oblivious to the attention—oblivious, it seems, to everything but our small sphere of dance floor—until a large man’s protruding bum almost knocks him to the ground.

  Mateo recovers with a laugh and suggests we move to the outside of the circle. I hesitate, thinking of my embarrassing feet, and of Dan, who is buried somewhere on the other side of the room, but Mateo doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls me after him, his arm warm around my waist. The women around us sigh visibly with disappointment.

  Finding a clear spot on the floor, Mateo waits for the right point to enter the music, looks at me intently, and steps forward. Right on my foot.

  “Sorry,” I offer weakly.

  “No, my fault. You weren’t ready. Here we go.” He steps forward again, and this time I step back with him. The next few steps, I’m okay, but then we get to the side-shuffle thing and I’m lost. No matter how hard I stare at my feet, I can’t will them to get it right.

  “What are you looking
at down there?” Mateo asks jokingly. “Did you lose something?”

  “Yeah, my dignity.” I stop and drop his hand from mine. “I’m sorry, Mateo, I should have warned you. I can’t dance. At all. Unless they start playing the Funky Chicken, you might as well give up on me as a partner.” Just saying the words is a huge relief. My name’s Cassie, and I’m a bad dancer. Hi, Cassie.

  “What’s the Funky Chicken?” he asks, his smile so soft and sweet.

  “Never mind,” I say. “Thanks for trying.” Thanks for taking pity on me.

  “Come, Cassandra.” He holds out his hand. “Everyone can dance.”

  “That’s like saying everyone can do brain surgery. Nice thought but not true.”

  “Well, you can dance. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen you.”

  “You’ve seen me?”

  “At Andrea’s, when there’s music on that you like, and you think no one’s watching, you do this little step.” He demonstrates, his feet gliding front and back in a slow salsa waltz.

  “I do not.” I shake my head, laughing.

  “You do.” He laughs back.

  “So you’ve been watching me, have you?” I cock my head and smile. Mateo blushes. He’s blushing! I scream in my head. I’ve actually made Mateo blush!

  “Well, when you’re dancing, it’s hard not to look.”

  “Because it’s so funny.”

  “No, not funny. Not funny at all.” He looks down at the floor for a second and then straight into my eyes. We stand there looking at each other until the music stops. Everyone is switching partners again. I see the greasy, unbuttoned guy coming my way.

  “Oh, well, I guess we’re supposed to—”

  “How about one more try,” Mateo says, taking my hand again and wrapping his other arm around my waist. The music starts and my body goes rigid in anticipation. I look down at my feet to prepare. Back, front, side, side, I think. “No watching the feet this time,” Mateo says, lifting my chin so we are eye-to-eye.